


Messages From a Ghost

by remanth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, First Kiss, First Time, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Suicidal Thoughts, case!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-14
Updated: 2012-11-14
Packaged: 2017-11-18 16:30:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/563074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remanth/pseuds/remanth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is trying to deal with life in the wake of Sherlock's suicide. He contemplates committing suicide himself and gets the pills to do it. But when he finally tries to go through with it, a mysterious text message stops him. Now, he waits to see if the man he thought was dead really is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Seeking Solace

8 months, 3 weeks, and 4 days. That's how long it had been since Sher-, he jumped from the building. John Watson sits in his favorite armchair in their flat at 221B Baker Street. He made himself a cup of tea earlier, but now it sits cold at his elbow. He had been thinking about some early cases. Slowly, his gaze lifts to the bottle sitting on the arm of his favorite armchair.

It was easy, smuggling out the little orange bottle with the pills inside. He is, after all, a doctor and a trusted one at the clinic. Ever since his friend fell, John had been taking more and more shifts at the clinic. He didn't sleep well at night and the work made him tired.

Shifting his gaze away for what feels like the hundredth time tonight, John lets the memory of the nightmares flood his mind. They had stormed back, along with his limp, not long after the funeral. It was always the same, night after night. The nightmare would start back in Afghanistan, seeing his friends shot, seeing the people he couldn't heal. Then, the pain in his shoulder and the shock of knowing he'd been shot. After that, the dream would shift to a London street. St. Bart's stretched before his eyes and Sher- he was standing on the roof, phone in one hand and the other outstretched. To him, to John Watson. Then, he would step gracefully forward and fall, long coat flapping like broken wings.

John would always wake up at this point, usually by shouting, "Wait, Sherlock!" But right now, he sits comfortably in his chair, ignoring his cold tea. Eyeing the little orange bottle perched mockingly on his chair. He didn't know why he took the pills a few days ago and set them there. He supposed he was seeking a sort of solace. Or perhaps just simply oblivion. John doesn't know and, at this point, he doesn't care.

Slowly, John reaches for the bottle of pills. He thumbs the cap open and counts the little white circles. 15. Enough to send him to the solace or oblivion that he seeks. He tips the pills into his hands, counting as they fall.

'If my friend, that amazing, mad, brilliant man, can take this way out,' John thinks, 'Then so can I. Its just not worth it anymore, without the cases. Without the brilliance and madness and wonder that Sher- he always showed me.' With that thought, John picks up the cold tea and moves to place the pills in his mouth. He pauses, though, when his phone beeps. It's the sound he set for text messages. John sets the tea back down, thinking the text might be from Lestrade. He's the only one who texts him nowadays. Opening his phone, John reads the text, his eyes going wide.

"Don't! -SH"


	2. Drive

"Don't! -SH"

Sherlock sat back on the bed, breathing heavily. He had been watching John, watching him struggle with the little bottle. 8 months, 3 weeks, and 4 long days. That's how long he's watched John fall apart, watched John struggle to cope with what he believed was Sherlock's death.

Sherlock didn't believe John would actually take the pills. He felt fear bubble in his chest as he realized his text almost hadn't reached the despondent doctor in time. Standing again at the window, Sherlock watched as the phone fell from John's fingers. A look of dazed disbelief centered in the doctor's eyes and he made no move to pick up the phone. The pills dropped unseen onto the carpet. Sherlock breathed a deep sigh in relief. He had been in time.

He didn't completely understand this drive he had. To protect and care for John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. But John most of all. His name had been the first on Sherlock's lips as Moriarty taunted him. Had explained to him what would happen if he didn't fall from the roof of St. Bart's. The phone call to John had given Sherlock the strength to protect him. Even though he had torn out John's heart to do it.

Sherlock continued to watch John, the doctor sitting in the chair staring at his phone. Sherlock knew it had probably been a bad idea to text John, but he couldn't sit by and let John take those pills. Not when Sherlock would be coming back after he had made John safe. He had been watching the doctor every night he could, his heart breaking at the loss and despair. He wished he could just walk into the flat and explain.

Sherlock shifted as John stood up and walked to his bedroom. He left the phone on the floor and Sherlock felt as if someone had punched him in the gut. Did John not believe in him anymore? He saw John's light flick on and a shadow moving. Then the light flicked off. Apparently, John had gone to sleep. Sherlock fell back on his bed, breath huffing out. John was safe for another night and he had work to do.


	3. Memory

John stifled a yawn as he listened to another patient describe his symptoms. Work had started to get boring, repetitive. His eyes glazed over as one part of his brain catalogued the symptoms. The other part, the large part, goes back to his phone. The phone he left lying on the floor next to his chair as he left the flat this morning.

John shook himself out of his ruminations and focused on his patient again. The man had finished his recitation and was looking at John expectantly. He coughed slightly, dabbing his mouth with a tissue.

"Well, it sounds like you have the flu," John said. "Get some rest, drink plenty of fluids, and eat as much chicken soup as you can handle. I'm going to prescribe a general antibiotic for you." The man nodded and smiled at the doctor. He had been really worried. John wrote out the prescription and handed it over. After the man left, John sat back in his chair and sighed.

Thoughts turning back to his phone, John steepled his fingers and rested his chin on them. He had started copying some of Sherlock's mannerisms, unconsciously, not long after the mad detective's funeral. John's eyes looked into the distance, completely unfocused on his office. Thoughts of Sherlock chased each other around his head.

"I saw him die," John moaned aloud. "I saw him fall and I felt his pulse. He was dead. How can he be texting me?" John dropped his head into his hands, his fingers curling into his hair. He had let it grow longer, shaggier, because he couldn't be bothered to cut it. Hearing a soft knock at his door, John looked up and said, "Come in." Sarah poked her head around the door, worry etching her face.

"Hey, John," she said. "How are you?" John shrugged in reply and lifted his head. He met Sarah's eyes and felt bad for the worry there. Worry he had caused.

"I'm ok," he told Sarah, forcing a bit of false cheer into his tone. "It's getting better." Sarah's eyes narrowed at John, knowing he was lying.

"Well, I'm here," Sarah told him. "If you ever need anything. Ever need to talk." John nodded and Sarah backed out and closed the door. John sighed and looked at the clock. He had just enough time to finish his files before heading home for the night. He sat busily typing at his computer, trying to forget the past several months. About an hour later, John closed down the program and got ready to leave. He walked out of the clinic, limping heavily and leaning on his cane.

When he reached the flat, he walked slowly up the steps. He wanted to see if the text on his phone was still there, but was terrified it wasn't. Who could have sent it anyways? Limping into the flat, John saw that his phone was still in the same place on the floor. He picked it up and scrolled to his text messages.

"Don't! -SH"

The text still existed on his phone and John let out a sigh of relief. The memory of that text had allowed him to ignore the little white pills scattered on the floor underneath his chair. The memory of that text had allowed him to actually concentrate on work today. Had even put a small smile on his face because it was so Sherlock.

John cradled the phone against his chest, happiness starting to bubble up. Maybe, this meant Sherlock wasn't really dead. Maybe, just maybe, this meant that the miracle he had asked for, standing at Sherlock's grave, had a chance of coming through. Humming one of Sherlock's compositions, John limped into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. Tea had always helped throughout the waiting. And wait he would, for that brilliant, mad, amazing, and frustrating consulting detective.


	4. Insanity

'1 year, 5 months, 2 weeks, and 1 day,' Sherlock thought as he sat in the flat across from his old one. The flat that John still stayed in. Sherlock glanced down at his phone, a cheap one he had picked up about a year ago, and wondered. He hadn't gotten a return text all that time ago when he saved John from the pills. He wasn't even sure if John believed it had come from him.

Sherlock sighed and ran a hand through his black curls. Moriarty's web was almost completely dismantled, but the time grated on Sherlock. He could feel what he swore was insanity creeping slowly up to him. The longer he spent away from their flat, from John, the worse the feeling became. He felt as if tendrils were creeping along his back, tingling and burning. He didn't know how much longer until the insanity took him over, but he hoped he had enough time.

Movement across the street caught his eye and Sherlock jumped up. He rushed to the window and parted the curtains carefully. It wouldn't do for John to see him. Not yet. Sherlock's heart warmed as he saw the stalwart doctor limp across the room to sit heavily in the red armchair. The doctor looked especially careworn today, his eyes tired and his face drooping. But Sherlock thought he could see a glimmer of hope in his eyes. Hope that had been there since the text.

Dropping the curtain, Sherlock shuffled back to his chair, a smile lighting his face. John Watson still believed. His John. Sherlock had no idea when the ex-soldier had become his in his mind, but he wasn't going to argue the point. He just knew that having John there had made his life less boring.

"I'd be lost without my blogger," Sherlock repeated to himself, smile still creasing his face. He raised his eyes to look at the window. He saw that John had moved, getting a cup of tea and placing it at his elbow. The doctor held his phone in one hand and the paper in another. His heart jumping, Sherlock picked up his phone. Should he? John was obviously waiting to see if he would receive another text.

Deciding, Sherlock opened his phone and typed out a quick message. His thumb hovered over the Send button, tracing the lettering. There was minimal danger in sending this second text, but still, that was his John. Sherlock shook his head and depressed the button before he deleted the message. Closing his phone, he steepled his fingers under his chin, eyes glued to the tired doctor in the flat next door.

\---------

John jumped when his phone beeped, completely absorbed in the article he was reading. The flat still seemed too quiet without the exasperating detective taking so much of its space. He still sometimes read articles aloud to hear an opinion that was never going to come.

John looked at his phone and realized it was a text message that had been sent. He didn't recognize the number and his heart raced within his chest. Could it be? Could someone he believed dead be texting him? John slowly scrolled to the text in his phone and felt his heart kick in his chest as he read it.

"Soon. -SH"


	5. Silence the Second

"Soon. -SH"

John's hand shook as he read the text on his phone. His heart hammered in his chest and the newspaper fluttered to the ground, forgotten. John clutched the phone as if it were a lifeline back to reality, back to Sherlock. He still didn't know if it really was that mad detective sending the texts, but right now he didn't care.

He held the phone gently now debating whether to send a text back. John ached to see Sherlock again, to hear his voice, and roll his eyes at another experiment on their kitchen table. 1 year, 5 months, 2 weeks, and 1 day since he had received the last text. The text that saved his life and gave him hope. John did a quick calculation and realized it had been over 2 years since Sherlock's fall. He could finally think his name now even if he couldn't say it out loud.

John let his mind wander over all the things he wished he had said to his friend and colleague. How much he enjoyed his company, craved the danger and adrenaline, loved the mad brilliant man who had become more important to him than himself. He wasn't able to return the text last time, wrapped up in his own pain and loss. John decided to answer the text this time. He wanted to know if someone he believed dead was texting him.

John juggled his phone a bit in his hand, trying to decide what to send. There were so many things he and Sherlock had done, but he wanted to make sure that Sherlock and only him could give the answer. Suddenly, John realized how silent it was in the flat. He had noticed it before and usually turned the TV on. Not too long ago, though, John went out and bought a CD. One filled with songs played on the violin. When he started to miss Sherlock too much and his mind went back to the pills, John would blast the CD.

That CD relaxed him as nothing else could. When it played, he closed his eyes and imagined it was Sherlock standing before him and coaxing the beautiful music from his violin. John stood to put the CD on, the silence becoming too much to bear. As the soothing strains of classical music filled the flat, John sat back down in his armchair and thought.

Finally deciding on what to send back, John pulled out his phone and typed out a few quick words. He smiled at them and hit the send button. As his phone beeped the sent message tone, John sat back and closed his eyes. The music calmed him and filled the silence of the flat. Completely relaxed now, John fell into the deepest sleep he's had for over 2 years.

\-------------

Sherlock still sat with his hands steepled below his chin. He could barely hear the music coming from the flat he used to share with his John. It actually made him smile when he recognized the violin. Sherlock closed his eyes to hear better, mimicking John's pose. Suddenly, his phone beeped. Sherlock opened his eyes to see an incoming text on his phone. He opened it, heart beating faster. Had John....?

"Afghanistan or Iraq? -JW"


	6. Gray

'3 years to the day,' John thought as he finished up his paperwork at the clinic. '3 years since he fell from that roof.' John closed the program on his computer and put the rest of his files away. He checked his phone for the umpteenth time. No new texts. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He didn't know if he was happy or not that there was no reply.

Grabbing his coat and scarf, John decided to visit Sherlock's grave again. He hadn't been back since the funeral. Since the day he stood in front of the onyx marble and begged Sherlock to give him one last miracle. John walked outside of the clinic and hailed a cab. He directed the driver to the cemetery and sat back, drowning in memories.

"We're here," the cabby announced and John paid him. He walked through the cemetery enjoying the scenery. It truly was beautiful here and that always pulled at his heart. He stopped in front of Sherlock's grave. No flowers adorned it and the grass grew tall and green. John gently laid his hand on the top of the tombstone and spoke to it. He recounted some interesting patients at the clinic, how he had cleaned up the flat, and how he still missed Sherlock. Feeling a sense of peace, John gave the tombstone a final pat and walked out. He didn't notice the tall man standing behind a tree, his silvery blue eyes trained on John.

The man shadowed John as he left the cemetery and called another cab. He sighed, noting new lines on John's face and gray in his hair. Sherlock watched as the cab drew away, heading for John's flat. He had finally found the last sniper a few days earlier. Now, he hesitated. Now, he couldn't figure out how to tell John that he was alive. Texting as he had done before seemed so impersonal and could be mistaken. He didn't think John believed that he was sending the texts in the first place.

Making up his mind, Sherlock hailed a cab. He had been walking while thinking and full darkness had fallen. If John still followed the routine Sherlock had seen, he would be sitting down with a cup of tea and the paper. As the cab pulled up to 221B Baker Street, Sherlock paid him and stepped out. He walked up the steps and hesitated again.

\--------------

John was indeed sitting in his red armchair with the paper and a cup of tea. Absently, he would sip at the tea and place the cup back down. He flipped through the paper, trying to find something to distract him from the silence. His CD had finally stopped working, scratched from all the times it had been played. Finally putting the paper down, John settled for looking out the window.

In the silence, he heard the sounds of London. Innumerable cars, trucks, buses, and people all flowing past his window. John still felt divorced from the world and believed he always would. Sherlock had made it interesting, given the world color and life. He heard quiet footfalls on the stairs and assumed Mrs. Hudson had come home late. John dismissed the footsteps until he heard a quiet knock on the door.

His head whipped around and he stared at the door. No one knocked on the door anymore. Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, even Molly and Lestrade, tended to just walk right in anymore. They knew he didn't lock the door. John wondered if it might be an old client of Sherlock's. He crossed to the door and opened it.

Gray filled his vision as he saw who was standing there. John felt the world tilt under his feet and gripped the door tightly.

"John," a quiet baritone said softly. John just groaned and shook his head. This couldn't be happening. This couldn't be real. He'd seen him fall. Felt his pulse. Saw his dead eyes. Gray was overflowing now and John fought to stay on his feet, swaying.

"John," he heard again, this time more urgently. John opened his mouth to answer but nothing came out. Losing the fight, he drowned in the gray and felt his legs drop out from beneath him. Before he hit the floor, he heard that familiar baritone scream his name. Then the gray was all he knew.


	7. Foreign

Sherlock, uncharacteristically for him, felt panic seize him when John's legs folded beneath him. He grabbed for the shorter man, just barely keeping him from hitting the ground.

"John!" Sherlock screamed. "John, wake up!" But the doctor's eyes remained closed, eyes fluttering behind the lids. Sherlock sighed, the panic a completely foreign emotion to him. Not that most emotions weren't foreign. He picked John up and carried him into the living room. He placed John gently on the couch and stood, staring. The doctor looked older, the years weighing heavily on his features.

Sherlock walked into the kitchen, surprisingly clean and without body parts. He made two cups of tea and placed one on the coffee table within John's reach. Sherlock then sat in his armchair, hands steepled under his lips. He studied John while his tea steamed forgotten.

'Clothes rumpled means he hasn't felt the need to iron them. Or he sleeps in them,' Sherlock thought. 'Hair shaggy and frazzled due to many times running his hand through it. More lines on his face which means he doesn't sleep much and is letting his grief weigh him down. Bottle of pills on the mantel. Test to himself and a reminder.' Sherlock's thoughts paused as John groaned and raised a hand to his eyes.

"That was just a dream, John," John told himself. "A very vivid dream. Sherlock is dead."

"No, John," Sherlock said quietly. "I'm really here." Sherlock froze as John's eyes turned to him. They were empty, no emotion or life in them. John slowly stood up and walked over to Sherlock. Without warning, John lashed out and punched Sherlock on the cheek. He followed as Sherlock fell to the floor and wrapped an arm around his throat.

"Who are you?" John growled. "Because you look like him and you sound like him, but you can't be. He died." John sobbed the last bit out, his hold on Sherlock's neck weakening. He sat back, tears leaking from his eyes. Sherlock turned and looked at John.

"I'm not dead, John," Sherlock said. "I faked my death all those years ago. I had too." While Sherlock was talking, John eased himself into his red armchair. He laid his head on his hands, looking down at the floor. Feeling another foreign thing, Sherlock's heart sank. He moved to kneel in front of John, almost but not quite touching the other man's legs.

"John, Moriarty threatened you," Sherlock continued. "You, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. Snipers. They had orders to kill you all if I didn't jump." John looked up, his eyes meeting Sherlock's silvery blue ones. He was shocked to see Sherlock so close but he kind of liked it. Sherlock smiled, the genuine smile he saved only for John. He could see John starting to accept and to understand.

"I finally took out the last sniper," Sherlock whispered, leaning closer to John. "You had to believe I was gone so that they didn't hurt you. I couldn't come back until you were safe." John finally smiled and leaned into Sherlock. Throwing his arms around the other man, John said into his shoulder, "I can't believe you're back. I missed you, Sherlock." Sherlock finally let out a breath, his arms wrapping around John.

"I missed you too," Sherlock whispered into John's ear. Sherlock's heart was hammering in his chest and he could feel John's beating hard too. Sherlock eased back and looked deep into John's eyes, his hand wrapping around John's wrist.

'Hmm, pupils dilated, heart pounding, and he hugged me,' Sherlock thought. 'Is it possible he feels the same way I do?' Sherlock took a deep breath, trying to push down the foreign emotions coursing through him.

"John, can I try an experiment?" Sherlock asked suddenly. John choked out a laugh and replied, "Do you have any idea how much I missed hearing that? Sure." Feeling shy, Sherlock cupped John's face in his hands. The doctor looked surprised but Sherlock ignored that. He leaned in and brushed his lips against John's then pulled back. He looked down, actually scared to meet John's eyes.

John couldn't believe that Sherlock had just kissed him. Apparently, the feelings he had weren't one-sided. Smiling gently, John placed a hand under Sherlock's chin and raised his face to meet his eyes.

"Wanna experiment again?" John asked softly.


	8. Happiness 2

"Wanna experiment again?" John asked. He threaded his fingers through Sherlock's hair, finally getting to touch the black curls. He'd wondered for a long time what Sherlock's hair felt like. It was soft and he smelled wonderful. John had missed that smell. He had one of Sherlock's scarves and kept it in bed with him when he couldn't sleep.

"Again?" Sherlock asked, confused. "You want to?" John nodded and moved one hand to lift Sherlock's face to his. Kissing again, John licked at Sherlock's lower lip. The taller man groaned and opened his mouth. John's tongue immediately slipped inside, tasting and exploring.

Sherlock pressed closer to John, happiness flooding him. He recognized this feeling from before he fell, whenever he spent time with John. His long fingers traced the muscles of John's back through his shirt. Growing more confident, Sherlock explored John's mouth, pushing his tongue against John's. John moaned into his mouth, one hand still locked in Sherlock's hair.

"Sherlock, bed, now," John groaned, breaking their kiss.

"What?" Sherlock asked. "What's wrong with here?" John chuckled and kissed him gently. He stood, drawing Sherlock up beside him.

"Because armchairs do not make the best places to sleep with someone," John answered. "And the floor isn't very comfortable." John laughed again as Sherlock blushed. Grabbing Sherlock's hand, John led him to Sherlock's old room. After John pushed open the door, Sherlock stopped in the entrance, shock written across his face.

"I couldn't clear it out," John said quietly. "I didn't want to let you go." Sherlock lifted his eyes from the room to meet John's. He smiled gently, one of his few genuine ones, and pulled John to him. He kissed the doctor deeply, maneuvering him until John's back hit the wall. Trapping John's arms above his head, Sherlock pressed his body against John's. He moved down to kiss and nibble his neck, exhilerated to hear the doctor gasp.

"Bed later John," Sherlock said slyly. John could only moan in reply, his mind fogged by the sensations Sherlock was causing. Moving his hands so he only needed one to hold John's wrists, Sherlock explored John's body. He skimmed underneath John's shirt and felt his heated skin. He slipped John's shirt up and released his wrists to tear it off. Trapping John's hands again, Sherlock ran his fingernails over John's chest, tweaking the nipples gently.

"Sherlock," John sighed. "Where did you learn to get so good at this?"

"Contrary to what my brother believes, John," Sherlock replied. "I know what to do when it comes to sex." His hand slid down and cupped John through his jeans. Gently rubbing him, Sherlock again kissed John deeply, swallowing John's groans. John's hips started grinding into his, both of them hardening at the friction. Sliding against John, Sherlock undid John's jeans and slipped them off. His hand went back down to cup John, stroking him.

"God, Sherlock!" John moaned. He was writhing under Sherlock's grasp, trying to break his arms free. Sherlock just tightened his grip on John's wrists and licked down his neck to his collarbone.

"I don't think so, John," Sherlock said. "I'm not letting you loose. Not yet." Sherlock continued to stroke him, moving up and down slowly then faster. Moving John's arms down a little bit, Sherlock continued to explore John's skin. He traced a line down the middle of his chest and swirled his tongue around one nipple. He grinned as John arched into him.

John sighed at the loss when Sherlock removed his hand from around him. His mind was almost completely blown at how good Sherlock was at touching him. None of his girlfriends had ever been as sensitive to him as Sherlock was. But he didn't have long to miss Sherlock's touch because Sherlock gripped his arms tight and spun him. His chest was pushed up against the wall and Sherlock was kissing and nibbling at his shoulders.

"She- Sherlock?" John asked breathlessly.

"Mmm?" Sherlock answered, his mouth busy.

"What... What are you doing?" John asked. His breath was coming in hitching gasps but he wasn't afraid. This was Sherlock. His best friend and colleague, now lover, who had come back from the dead.

"Well, John," Sherlock replied. "I thought I would shag you senseless." He laughed again as John breathed out another moan. Taking that as permission, Sherlock undid his own pants and slipped them off. Shifting behind John, he slid one finger inside the doctor. He waited as John adapted to the pressure. Slowly, he starting moving his finger in and out, stretching him. Another finger was added and John was bucking back against him, head lolling against Sherlock's chest. Sherlock added a third finger, thrusting deep inside John.

The pressure of Sherlock's fingers inside him was making John tremble. He could barely stand and if Sherlock's body hadn't been pinning him to the wall, he would have slid down by now. Pumping his hips back against Sherlock's hand as hard as he could, John stopped fighting the hand holding his arms above his head. It felt somehow right, somehow natural, for Sherlock to be trapping him. He felt Sherlock's fingers withdraw and moaned in anticipation. He felt the taller man press against him harder and slip inside. John shivered at the feeling and bucked into the wall.

As he got used to the pressure, John pushed back against Sherlock again to pull him in deeper. John heard Sherlock groan behind him and grinned. They started moving in the same rhythm, friction growing between them. John felt Sherlock kissing his shoulders again and screamed when Sherlock bit the side of his neck.

"God, Sherlock, don't stop," John groaned. He jerked into the wall as Sherlock's hand gripped him again.

"That good, John?" Sherlock asked, his voice muffled against John's neck. John could only moan in reply still thrusting back into Sherlock. He could feel himself tensing against Sherlock's hand and the pressure within him was building.

"She... Sherlock, I think I'm going to come," John grated out.

"Good, John," Sherlock replied. "I am too. Come with me." Sherlock thrust as deep inside John as he can reach and felt himself explode inside him. John screamed and let himself go, coating himself, Sherlock's hand, and the wall in slick fluid. Sherlock kissed John's neck one more time and pulled out slowly. He let go of John's hands and caught the doctor as he slid to the floor. Sherlock picked him up and carried him to the bed.

"Let me grab a towel," Sherlock said, tenderness in his tone. John just nodded, still too out of it to speak. Sherlock went to the bathroom, cleaned himself up, then brought a towel back to John. He carefully cleaned John's skin, lingering with his fingers. Tossing the towel onto the floor, Sherlock crawled into bed with his doctor.

"You are amazing, Sherlock," John said, finally finding his voice again. He sounded hoarse from the moaning and screaming and Sherlock smiled.

"You were too, John," Sherlock replied. He pulled John close to him and tucked John's head against his shoulder. They both relaxed, arms wrapped around each other. As he was about to fall asleep, Sherlock heard John speak.

"By the way Sherlock," John whispered. "Welcome back." Sherlock smiled and placed a light kiss on John's head.

"It's good to be back, love," Sherlock whispered back.


	9. Precious Treasure

"John! John get in here!" Sherlock bellowed from his armchair. He startled the client sitting in John's red armchair, but at the moment he didn't care. He had a case again. It had been a month since he returned to the flat and clients had finally started ringing the bell again. He looked up as John walked into the room from the kitchen.

John held a plate in his hand and was idly drying it. Sherlock still wouldn't do the dishes. John looked at his flatmate, now partner, and allowed some of the heat he felt to show in his eyes. Sherlock sternly reminded himself not to fidget in front of a client and cleared his throat.

"This man has lost a precious treasure," Sherlock said. "And he wants us to find it." Sherlock gestured at the man and he turned in his seat. John saw that he was an older man, with red hair and blue eyes. The man took a deep breath and clasped his hands.

"My name is Edward Atkins," he started. "I own a small chain of jewelry stores. Yesterday, a woman came in to have a necklace appraised. It was a beautiful piece, fashioned of white gold with sapphires and rubies. Worth almost a million pounds." Here Edward paused and ran a hand through his hair. John could see that he was clearly agitated. Well, he would be too if he had lost a necklace worth that much.

"Anyways, after appraising it, I locked it in my jewelry safe in the back of the store," Edward continued. "At closing, I locked up and set the alarm as usual and headed home. When I went back in this morning, I saw that the safe had been opened and the necklace stolen." Edward stopped again and dropped his head into his hands. His shoulders shook a bit, as if he was trying to hold back sobs.

"I don't have enough insurance to pay for the loss of that necklace," Edward bit out, anger overriding the sorrow. "I need to get it back." John nodded his head and walked back into the kitchen to put the plate away. He came back with a glass of water and handed it to Edward. Sitting down at the desk, John looked at Sherlock. Sherlock nodded his head and John straightened his shoulders.

"Ok, so first things first," John said. "How many employees do you have in the store and how long have they worked for you?" Edward thought for a moment, his brow wrinkling.

"I have three employees who work in that store," Edward answered. "Two have been there for years and the third started about 2 months ago. She's a very hard worker but not very friendly."

"Was she working the day the woman came in with the necklace?" Sherlock took over the questioning.

"As a matter of fact, she was," Edward said, surprised. "Why? You think Alice had something to do with this?" Sherlock just steepled his fingers and lost himself in thought. John shook his head at Sherlock and answered, "Well, possibly. We have to ask these questions to narrow it down."

At that point, Sherlock jumped up from his chair and slung his coat on. Following it with his favorite blue scarf, Sherlock turned back to Edward and John. Pointedly not looking at John, knowing how he felt about the scarf, Sherlock said, "I need to see the scene of the crime. Let's go to the store." John put on his own coat and ushered the startled Edward down the stairs after Sherlock. The three men climbed into the cab Sherlock had flagged down and waited in silence for the ride to Edward's store.

John was sitting across from Sherlock and couldn't help but send sly glances at the detective every time Edward looked out the window. Sherlock quickly grew frustrated at not being able to return the glances because Edward didn't look out the window very long. When they reached the store, Sherlock hopped out of the cab, barely allowing it to stop. John chuckled to himself and got out after Edward.

Edward led the two men into the back of the shop where the safe still hung open. He gestured expansively at the room and Sherlock immediately got to work. He inspected the panel for the alarm on the wall, the floor around the safe, and finally the safe itself. John stood back with Edward, admiring the slim form of the detective. After a few minutes, Sherlock jumped back up.

"Ok, the alarm did not go off last night when the safe was broken into. Also, the safe is not an easy one to pick, so most likely they had the combination. Shoeprints around the safe show that it was a female and more than one who came in here to take the necklace," Sherlock said, hardly taking a breath. "Which means that Alice and the woman who brought the necklace in were working together. Last night after you locked up, they came back and got the necklace out of the safe. Then, after you found out about it, she would collect the insurance money for it and still have the necklace. Neat little fraud."

John smiled warmly at Sherlock and said, "Brilliant." Edward just stood with his mouth slightly open, staring in awe at the confident detective. His mouth worked a few moments before he said, "Ok, that's good to know. Now how do I get the necklace back? And how do you prove all this so they are arrested?"

"We just need to find where Alice lives," John said quickly, before Sherlock can snap at Edward. "You have it on file?" Edward nodded and left to go get the information. Taking advantage of their moment alone, John moved to Sherlock and wrapped his arm around the taller man's waist. Sherlock leaned down and kissed John quickly on the lips. They pulled apart as Edward's footsteps came back.

"Here it is," the agitated man said. Sherlock took the paper and pulled John out after him. They climbed into a cab and went to the address on the paper. Sherlock pounded up the steps of the apartment building, stopping at the third floor. He knocked and they heard footsteps come to the door.

"Yes?" came a cautious voice.

"Alice Woodbridge?" Sherlock asked. "We'd like to talk to you about your employer." Silence came from the other side of the door. After a few moments, John cocked his head and could hear panicked steps race across the room. The sound of a window being thrown open echoed through the door and Sherlock grinned at John.

"Fancy a chase, love?" Sherlock asked. John nodded eagerly in reply and they raced down the steps. Once outside, they could see a short, black-haired woman dart across the street. Immediately they followed, heedless of the traffic that screeched around them. Alice led them a merry chase through some of the backstreets of London before Sherlock finally caught her.

"What do you want?" she asked, twisting in Sherlock's iron grip.

"We want to know the woman who worked with you to steal that necklace," Sherlock answered, his voice cold. Alice stilled in his grasp and gaped at him.

"How do you know about that?" she asked. Sherlock just shrugged and glared at her. She took a deep breath and finally said, "Fine. Her name is Sasha Miller. She lives in central London. Nice flat." She rattled off an address and stood panting. Sherlock nodded to John, who sent a quick text to Lestrade. A few minutes later, a police car pulled up at the mouth of the alley they were standing in. Sherlock handed Alice off to the officer and then called another cab. The two men got in and waited in silence for the trip.

John's hand found Sherlock's, squeezing companionably. He was rewarded with a quick grin from Sherlock. They jumped out of the cab as it reached the building. They walk up to a classy apartment building and knock on a red-painted door. It swung open and a tall, statuesque woman with brown hair and nearly-black brown eyes stood there. She eyed the two men on her doorstep curiously. Sherlock's eyes skimmed down to her neck and then back up to her eyes.

"Sasha Miller?" he asked. When the woman nodded, he continued, "Do you know an Alice Woodbridge?" Caution and fear came into the woman's eyes as she nodded carefully. Sherlock stepped into the apartment, John following close on his heels.

"You recently brought in a necklace to be appraised at Edward Atkins' jewelry store, right?" John asked. The woman nodded again and brought one hand up to the necklace around her throat.

"However, that necklace looks an awful lot like the one that was stolen last night," John continued. Sasha gasped and turned to run. She darted into the kitchen and pulled a small gun from one of the drawers. She waved it angrily at the two men, who held their arms up in a conciliatory gesture.

"We're not here to hurt you," Sherlock said, distracting her from John by walking forward. John quickly pulled out his phone and typed a quick text to Lestrade. At the nearly silent confirmation beep, he slipped it back into his pocket. Guns pointed at Sherlock always made him nervous so John pulled his own gun out and cleared his throat.

"Now, I don't want to shoot you," John said clearly. "But if you don't stop pointing that gun at him, I may have to." Sasha nodded and slowly lowered the gun, placing it on the counter. At that moment, Lestrade burst in, shouting at everyone to freeze. Sherlock and John grinned at each another; another case completed. They gave their statements to Lestrade and quickly went back to their own flat.

"You know John," Sherlock said, settling into his armchair. "I had already found the precious treasure before we even left the flat." John looked at him with wonder and surprise in his eyes.

"Oh really?" John asked. "You knew that Alice was working with Sasha? Before even seeing the shop?" Sherlock shook his head and steepled his fingers. A small smile played on his lips as he watched John make tea for the both of them. He stayed silent until John came back, setting a cup of tea at his elbow.

"Oh, yes, I found the treasure a month ago," Sherlock said, allowing the smile to fully claim his lips. He took a sip of his tea as John processed his sentence.

"Oh," was all John said, wonder in his voice. Sherlock took that as his cue to shift forward and kneel between John's legs.

"Yes, "oh", love," he said before claiming John's lips with his.


End file.
